


Training

by sabrina_il (marina)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fisting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/sabrina_il
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese is an omega, Finch is a beta whose body, due to exposure to illegal drugs, is temporarily behaving as though he were an omega. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, this takes place in the second half of S3, when Team Machine is up against Decima and the attempts to bring Samaritan online.
> 
>  
> 
> DISCLAIMERS: 
> 
> 1\. Any semblance of "science" in this fic is laughable. 
> 
> 2\. This is a 100% self indulgent... THING. I cannot stress this enough.
> 
> 3\. Includes flashbacks to Reese's CIA training that included torture "simulations".
> 
> 4\. The_ragnarok is a hero of the people. Please see her for any chance of a sequel/coda to this fic.

"Let me help," Reese says, steadying Finch so he doesn't fall, doesn't give himself a head wound or a concussion. Reese has seen it happen before.

"It's quite alright, Mr. Reese," Finch says, "I'm fine, I'm quite capable of... in spite of the situation..." he drifts off, his eyes closing, his breathing already irregular. Dynamic-shifting drugs aren't just illegal, they're supposed to be impossible. Reese remembers reading about them in training, the experiments the government did in the 80s, the various attempts by dictators to get their hands on leaked tech. None of it had ever been successful. And yet... and yet here is Finch, born a beta, experiencing his first heat.

"You're not fine," Reese grits out, tries to make it a flat statement, not an accusation, not a reproach. Finch doesn't need that right now. None of this is his fault.

"It's quite..." Finch says, drifting off again. He takes a step away from Reese but he's too unsteady. He leans against the wall of the hallway, presses his forehead against it, breathes harshly.

Reese can't watch this anymore. "You need an alpha."

Finch grunts at that, but doesn't move. "I do not, Mr. Reese," he pauses to take a breath, "need any such thing." Finally he pushes himself away, tries to stand on his own. "If you could just help me get to my room." His skin is already flushed, sweat beading on his brow. If he doesn't take off at least three of his seven layers, he'll risk dehydration. Reese grits his teeth.

"I know," Finch says, as Reese helps him stagger the five remaining steps to the door. "You have a lifetime of experience with this. I appreciate your desire to help. But this is..." Finch pauses, closes his eyes again, takes another deep breath. Reese can smell him, the slick his body's begun to produce, the pheromones in his sweat. He's not wired to find it arousing, but the smell is impossible to miss. "I'll handle this myself. Many people do." He looks up at Reese, pupils dilated. "You do, in fact. On a regular basis."

Reese wants to laugh, wants to punch something, wants to grab Finch, throw him over his shoulder and carry him to the bedroom so he doesn't have to watch him struggle anymore. "I don't think that's an option for you," he says, instead. 

*

Reese knows the military hardly ever takes omegas. It's a self-selecting process - not many apply, those who do are usually thrown out during training, those who make it through training are treated like shit, which makes even fewer apply. He knows this, heard it all his life in his small town where practically everyone knows someone who served, but Reese is 18 and his father, and his father, and his father were soldiers for this country, and Reese can't break his mother's heart by going to jail. 

Basic is a shitshow. Some of the other recruits conjure a bucket of goo from somewhere and dump it on Reese one day after the showers. He has to sleep covered in the stuff because violating lights-out is not an option. The commanders try to find out who it was - not too hard, Reese knows secretly they think omegas have to learn to take it or quit the Army - and Reese keeps his mouth shut. No good ever came of snitching.

When they let him try out for Special Forces it gets better. Training is still brutal, he's still expected to take care of his own heat, not violate the fraternization rules with any alphas he happens to share a bunk with, perform all his duties as usual, but at least everyone around him has been on the job long enough that they're tired of the juvenile prank shit. That, and the percentage of alphas is bigger. There were only a few of them in Reese's town, mostly older people, a teacher in his high school he never had any classes with. But he'd always assumed alphas would be the worst to navigate. They aren't. They treat him differently, but also better, overall, than the betas. Some look at him like a piece of meat, like he's dying for their knot and the sight of them in the showers will send him to his knees. But even with them, there's no pushing, no testing his boundaries, no teasing him about heats or babies. No fucking with him just to see if he'll break.

All of that changes at the CIA. The Army didn't like Reese being an omega, didn't appreciate him sticking around, but decades of legislation meant they had to leave him alone. It doesn't take Reese long to realize none of those rules apply to being a spy.

The military put him through SERE twice, but the CIA has its own program. After three weeks of regular, mixed training they separate everyone by dynamic. The betas are sent off base somewhere, the alphas and omegas are segregated into different wings of a prison-like complex. It's Reese and the only two other omegas in his training cycle, and they're each given an envelope with GPS coordinates marked Top Secret before the games start.

They blindfold Reese, handcuff him and drag him to a cell with concrete floors, a metal cot with a thin, plastic mattress, and a bucket in the corner. They let him keep his clothes, which he doesn't understand until they finally inject him with the heat inducers. It's illegal, black market stuff, stronger than any prescription. It hits him like a freight train. Heats are usually like diving into a pool, like a bell curve. Slow and gradual, building up to a peak and then slowly fading. But the inducers are like a brick over the head – suddenly he's in the hardest part of it, the most intense, overwhelming need, and it doesn't fade no matter what Reese does.

He tears his own clothes off. Doesn't bother unbuttoning or unzipping. Doesn't even notice there's three people in the room with him, watching him as he does it. His hole's on fire, his skin is dripping with sweat. There's no food or water in the cell, no windows. One of the guys watching him is an alpha, standing there with a stern expression and an obvious hard on, arms crossed over his chest. The smell is driving Reese crazy, making him want to tear into his own skin to dig it out.

The inducers work for three days. They never leave Reese alone in the room, there's always someone watching him, and always at least one alpha. He begs, screams, cries for a knot. They ask him over and over for the coordinates, for his name, but all he gives them is his old rank and serial number. When they hold him down and a beta pushes something inside of him it feels like deliverance. It doesn't matter that it's just fingers, he wants to cry with how good it feels. The beta keeps pushing in, three fingers turning into five, turning into the widest part of his palm, until Reese can feel the start of an elbow against his perineum. It hurts but it's still better than nothing.

They fist him for hours, days, nights. There's always someone else pushing into him, always different people holding him down. The alphas never touch him skin-on-skin. He tries to suck on a finger once and they flip him on his back, put a boot against his naked hard on, press down until he sobs.

When the drugs start to fade, they give him another dose.

This time they drag him to a different, larger room, full of other omegas. Some he recognizes, some he doesn't. The whole room is covered in plastic, floor to walls to ceiling. No windows and artificial lighting that hurts his eyes. The floor is covered in slick, and his handlers take off most of their clothes, their shoes, before they throw him inside and lock the door. There's nothing but the sound of moaning, begging, grunting in his ears. Everywhere he looks there's an omega being held down by at least three people, arm shoved inside him.

He doesn't understand why this is supposed to be worse, why they dragged him here, until his face is pressed against the floor, and his handlers are on top of him, two lying across his back and one between his legs, keeping them spread. It's not until two fingers breach him that he gets it. Everyone in this room is either an alpha or an omega. He didn't notice the change because his system is fucked up anyway, but now that they're touching him it's impossible to miss. There's three alphas pressed up against his skin, and the thing that's pushing into him isn't a knot, can never be a knot. He'll be here forever, burning up until there's nothing left of him, having something shoved inside him that doesn't help, can't help. He screams, thrashes, bites his lips until his face is smeared with blood. Nothing changes, the weight on top of him keeps him still, the hand inside him keeps pushing at his insides.

His cock is hard – has been for days – squeezed against the plastic sheets on the floor. It hurts more than any other part of him, but the contact with alpha skin makes him come anyway. When the come shoots out of him Reese isn't even sure anyone around him can tell. Except of course they can, because his ass contracts, and then releases even more slick. He can feel the fisting get even more intense, the arm splitting him open sliding in easier. He can taste tears in his mouth, but his cock is hard again.

The second dose lasts for two days. They give him half a day to get cleaned up, recuperate, afterwards. He's still hazy by the time everyone is due back in class. Three more weeks of regular training, field prep, languages, theory, and they're broken up by dynamic again.

*

When Finch staggers into the bedroom Reese stands in the doorway, not letting himself take another step. Finch sits heavily on the bed, at first, but gasps as soon as he hits the mattress, eyes going wide with alarm.

Reese doesn't move.

He watches Finch press a shaky hand against the back of his slacks and pull it away moist. Finch's look of disoriented horror is unbearable. Reese has to go, leave now, or he'll start making really bad decisions.

"Mr. Reese, I…" Finch says, looking more desperate than Reese has ever seen him. "An alpha. I can't. That's simply not possible."

The only alpha they know is Root, and neither one of them trust her enough for this. If Finch had wanted her involved Reese would have sat outside the door for as long as the heat lasted. If Carter had still been alive… he couldn't let himself think about that anymore.

Finch sits on the bed, looking frozen. The heat must be urging him to act by now, forcing excitement on his body, but Finch was always contrary, always a control freak, and so he won't do anything to make this easier on himself.

"Take off your tie, at least," Reese begs. A first heat at Finch's age, chemically induced, there was no telling where it could go.

"This is…" Finch says, breathless. "It will pass."

"Not it won't," Reese says, his hands clenching into fists. "You don't know how bad this could get."

Finch starts undoing his tie with shaky fingers. "What… what would you suggest, John?" he asks quietly.

"Let me help."

Minutes pass while Finch considers, before finally looking up at Reese and nodding minutely.

Reese feels like he just climbed out of a small, confined space. His chest can expand again; his lungs can take in air. He takes one long step inside the bedroom and starts undoing Finch's clothes, ignoring Finch's attempts to help. Reese doesn't always remember the intricacies of bowties and folding pocket squares but taking layers off is always easier than putting them on. Finch's jacket falls to the floor, followed by his tie, his vest, his shirt, his undershirt. With each item he can see Finch breathe a little easier, his eyelashes fluttering with the relief of cool air against his skin.

"Lie back," Reese says, still on his knees between Finch's thighs. Finch still has all his clothes below the belt, but that doesn't matter as much. Reese helps him climb on the bed, lie on his back. He puts a hand, light, against Finch's chest and says, "stay. Try not to move. I'll be back."

He leaves, going to the small kitchen area a few reading rooms away. Finch keeps it stocked with good coffee, for guests, as well as his assortment of teas. Reese digs through the cupboards until he finds the cheap stuff, instant, frozen and ground supermarket coffee, the kind only he and Shaw drink, when they've been up for days. He transfers a few spoons of it into a mug and heads into the bathroom. Finch's array of painkillers is truly impressive, but all Reese needs is some over-the-counter stuff, which Finch keeps on the shelves over the sink. He tears a few pills from the wrapper and crushes them with the spoon before mixing them in with the coffee. The liquid ingredient will have to be Finch's mouthwash. It's mint flavor and it'll sting but it's better than the alternative. He pours a few drops of it into the dry mixture until it's closer to an ointment.

He heads back to the bedroom before remembering he needs something to sanitize the area. Finch keeps baby wipes buried in a bottom cupboard in the kitchen somewhere, from the time they had to take care of Leila, Reese is sure of it. It takes him a few more minutes to track them down.

When he comes back Finch is lying on his stomach, his shoes and socks discarded on the floor. The skin of his back is red and flushed, glistening with sweat. He's grinding against the bedding, though Reese would bet he's not even aware of it. It's fascinating to see this as Finch's first instinct. Reese remembers his own first few heats, before he realized stimulation to his cock wasn't going to help much.

"Let's get this off," Reese says, climbing on the bed. He puts the mug and the wipes on the bedside table and Finch groans, desperate and open, when Reese reaches down to unzip his pants. Finch is painfully hard, harder than he should be at this stage. If he'd stayed where Reese had put him he wouldn't be feeling so frustrated already. 

Finch's pants come off easily, his underwear is soaked in the back and the front, and Reese has to peel it off slowly while Finch winces.

Reese shrugs out of his jacket, unbuttons his shirt and lies on his back, pulling Finch half on top of him. It leaves Finch's legs splayed open, and with their height difference Reese has perfect access to Finch's ass.

Finch's breaths are harsh, his hair soft with sweat. His nipples are red and stiff, his cock jutting out from his stomach. "Perhaps, if you just fucked me," he begins to say, tone already pleading.

"Shh," Reese says, keeping one arm on Finch's stomach, holding him still, while he reaches for the wipes with the other. "That won't help." Finch doesn't even notice when Reese tosses the wipes on the bed, opening the package one handed and pulling one out. They're unscented, thank god. Most omegas Reese has met hate artificial smells at times like this.

"I'll clean you up," Reese says, lips to Finch's ear. "And then I'll give you something to make it better."

Finch makes a surprised little sound as Reese makes him lift his arms over his head. "Grab the headboard," he says, using his other hand to draw the wipes over Finch's armpits. "They do this in hospitals," Reese says, mostly to give Finch something to concentrate other than how weird this feels. "There's a special chamber, when it gets life-threatening. This is just the low tech version."

"Life threatening?" Finch says, and for a moment a note of his usual indignation, his standard distaste for Reese's old life, creeps through. It makes Reese smile. At least Finch is still here, still with him, listening.

When he's done wiping the pheromones from Finch's armpits he dips two fingers of his other hand into the mug and pulls out a smear of the pale brown concoction. They used to make it with similar ingredients in Iraq and Afghanistan, the omegas in the platoon would brew it and pass it around as needed. No one wanted to be the guy who had to be CASEVACed due to heat complications.

He smears the ointment under Finch's arms and listens to the sharp intake of breath that tells him it's working. It won't prevent the symptoms, but it'll make them more bearable. Give Finch more breathing room before they have to resort to drastic measures.

"Good, keep your arms up," Reese says, putting his lips to Finch's temples, checking his temperature. He's too hot, hotter than Reese has ever been a few hours into a natural heat. The next step would be to try and bring the temperature down by brute force, and if that didn't work… Reese would rather avoid that stage for as long as possible.

"Keep still," he says, holding Finch even tighter as he wipes down each of his nipples and puts the ointment in a circle around the areola. Finch fidgets, whines, but doesn't struggle. Reese wonders, briefly, which area to do next, before Finch decides it for him.

"Just do it," he says, breathless, spreading his legs wider. His glasses lie discarded on the bedding. Reese is careful not to let either of them crush them. "Please, Mr. Reese."

Reese bites his lip and obliges. Finch shudders in his arms as Reese wipes the secretions from his asshole, using a second wipe to push inside gently, absorb some of the liquid before it seeps out. Finch moans at that, pushes into Reese's hand, trying to get more. It's startling to realize, Reese has lost that instinct entirely. The CIA cured him of trying to use masturbatory aids that weren't really going to get the job done.

"Shh," he whispers into Finch's hair before smearing the greatest amount of ointment around the rim of his hole. It's the warmest spot on his body, already moist again. Finch yells out when the gel-like substance touches his body, quickly biting his lip to contain the sound. Reese wipes his hand on the sheet and holds him still with both arms, helping him hold his legs apart.

"Thank you," Finch says, a few moments later, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. There's wetness in the corners of his eyes – tears, not sweat. Reese wants to kiss them away, but doesn't. This is far from over and he's not sure Finch would appreciate the gesture.

"There's another part," Reese says, and Finch cranes his head painfully to look at him. Reese reaches down and cups Finch's sack. Finch's eyes go wide – Reese knows from experience betas find this part the most baffling. Finch doesn't realize the most sensitive part of him right now is a few inches lower.

"Do it," Finch says, with a determined, serious expression, like when he informs Reese of complication during a job. Or at least, that's what Reese imagines he looks like, on the other side of the phone.

Reese wipes Finch's scrotum and dips his fingers into what's left in the mug. He uses all of it to coat Finch's balls, holding him tight as Finch shakes apart.

"Please," Finch says. "If I could just…" he swallows. "If you could touch me, just there. Just to make this easier."

"Coming that way isn't going to help," Reese says, moving his arm to drape it across Finch's collarbone, putting some of the pressure on his neck. Reese has always loved that, the few times he got to spend a heat with someone else.

"How do you know?" Finch says, sounding pained and petulant. It makes Reese smile. "That is, how can you be certain?"

"I know, Finch," Reese says. "Trust me."

*

The heat lasts for nearly three days. Reese tells himself that if it got bad enough, if he missed the signs somehow, the Machine would probably send them an ambulance, or a doctor, or something. 

They spend most of it on Finch’s bed, curled up or on top of each other or with Finch so out of his mind he begs Reese to knot him until Reese has to hold him down to make him stop thrashing. Twice Reese ties Finch’s wrists to the headboard so he can get a glass of water from the kitchen. Finch can't keep most of it down but Reese tries anyway. 

It ends suddenly, in the middle of the night. Finch looks up at him with bleary eyes and says, “I'm starving,” and Reese knows it's over. Heat subdues appetite, subdues all the natural, everyday urges a body has. It's why omegas are considered so fragile. Reese has spent his life being told he'd get his partner killed some day, when he got desperate enough for a knot.

“Is this… Is this normal?” Finch says, sitting up wrapped in blankets, sipping on a cup of steaming matcha Reese gets him as the first step to recuperation.

“Sometimes it lasts longer,” Reese says, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “The first ones when you're a kid aren't usually this bad.”

Finch’s fingers on the edge of the cup are still a little shaky. “How is it…” He clears his throat. “That is, I assume you've been through this at some point since we met. Yet you’ve never asked for a single day off. It couldn't have all been fortuitous timing.”

Reese looks away, but it's too late. Finch is back to himself and his brain won't let go of a puzzle.

“John?”

Reese shrugs, tries to remember how normal people would talk about this, what their faces would look like. “Training.”

Finch’s expression changes. He's never been taught to lie, not by professional liars, so he's always been disturbingly easy to read. Confusion, alarm, understanding, horror, they all pass over his face in the second it takes him to pull on a polite expression. “I see. When are you due for your next?”

“Harold,” Reese says, but Finch’s expression grows harder, more determined. A stone wall not to be bargained with. Reese is tired and sore and hungry, and letting Finch know about this won't really matter. “Two weeks.”

Finch nods to himself. “Two weeks. I can work with that.” He meets Reese’s eyes. “Thank you. For… For all of it.”

“My pleasure,” Reese says, meaning it more sincerely than he wants to admit.

**Author's Note:**

> ...and the_ragnarok has written [a porny coda to this on tumblr](http://theragnarokd.tumblr.com/post/139745057044/rinch-omegaverse).


End file.
